


one regular day of barclays

by atavists



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: English National Team, English Premier League, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:27:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26760625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atavists/pseuds/atavists
Summary: That's all I ask for. Will never happen.A collection of short chapters featuring various prem pairings.1. Bellerin x Tierney2. Lampard x Mount3. Arteta x Guardiola4. Carragher x Neville5. Keane x Richards6. Dias x Stones
Relationships: Frank Lampard/Mason Mount, Héctor Bellerín/Kieran Tierney, Jamie Carragher/Gary Neville, Micah Richards/Roy Keane, Mikel Arteta/Pep Guardiola, Rúben Dias/John Stones
Comments: 25
Kudos: 65





	1. bellerin x tierney

**Author's Note:**

> This is where I intend to post short, random, usually fluffy, probably often quite angsty, pairings when the inspiration comes to me! Please enjoy x

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hector tucks his shirt into his shorts. Kieran isn't having it.

“Oi! Wit’s that?”

Hector turned in the direction of the unmistakable Glaswegian accent. He was met by the sight of Kieran gawping at him, or more specifically, at his shorts. 

“You talking to me, bro?”

“Aye, ‘course I’m talkin’ to you,” he scoffed. “We’re the only two left in the changing room.”

So they were, Hector realised, glancing over his shoulder as he finished tying his laces. He’d never witnessed the squad so eager to warm-up. Mikel really was working wonders.

“Sorry bro— what did you want?”

Kieran strode over to his teammate, planted his hands on his hips, and stared furiously at Hector’s shorts.

“Wit’s going on there?”

Hector glanced himself up and down, finding nothing out of the ordinary. “What? Where?”

“There!”

“Where?!”

“Don’t you play dumb with me, Hec.”

A weary sigh rose up in his throat, his back hunching as he gave up the act. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t wanted Kieran to notice, and might even go so far as to admit that he’d done it purely to get a reaction out of the boy. 

“Are you the only one allowed to tuck your shirt into your shorts now or somethin’, bro?”

“You’ve copied me!”

“Na, just looks cool, innit.”

“Naw, no way. Am no havin’ tha’.”

“You can’t bagsy tucking in your shirt.”

“I did it first!” Kieran whined, taking a step closer to Hector. “It was my thing!”

It took all of Hector’s self-control for him not to smirk right in Kieran’s face. “Don’t be so childish.”

“Ach, give it two minutes that you’re out on the pitch and everyone’ll start sayin’ pish like look at Hector with his tucked-in shirt, doesn’t that look so cool, oh, Jesus, isn’t Hector Bellerin such a cool guy.”

“But I am a cool guy, innit?”

“But I did it first, Hec!”

“So?”

“So,” Kieran stated, “untuck it.”

Hector was stricken by how close their bodies were, their faces only inches apart.

“No.”

“Untuck it, now.”

“No, bro. I want it tucked.”

Kieran released a wildly exaggerated noise of exasperation. “You fuckin’ untuck it now or I’ll have to untuck it for you.”

“Will you?”

“Aye, a will.”

Was it wrong for Hector to like the sound of that? He could almost feel the heat and unbridled energy radiating from Kieran onto him, dragging him into his orbit, connecting their bodies. He hadn’t known it would go this far, but he was strangely glad it had. 

“I’m not untucking it, bro.”

“Guess I’ll have to do it for you then,” came the reply, quick and confident as if the words had been waiting on Kieran’s tongue.

“Guess you will.”

They both stared at each other, dark eyes shadowed by the dimmed lights of the changing room. Hector taunted Kieran silently, raising his eyebrows higher as the seconds passed, holding back the grin that was threatening to break onto his face.

A second later and Kieran’s hands landed on Hector’s waist. His grasp was firm, firmer than it needed to be, and Hector could feel the pressure from each and every finger as they settled against the fabric clothing his skin. 

He’d tucked the shirt in tight, even going so far as to tuck it beneath the waistband of his boxers to ensure it would stay in place. That meant there was no way Kieran could just pull it out without being forceful, or without stretching the band of the shorts. 

Hector really had no idea of what his teammate was doing, was so drawn in by the unbearable closeness of their lips, that when he felt a hand slip beneath the inside of his shorts and settle over his crotch his entire body felt as if it was being attacked by pins and needles. 

Kieran’s hand was on Hector’s dick. Granted, any skin on skin contact was prevented by the thin spandex of his boxers, but there was no other way to describe it. Kieran’s hand was on his cock.

Kieran made no attempt to move away. Neither his expression nor his body language gave up how he was really feeling, unlike Hector, whose breathing had already shortened, coming in sharp heaves. 

Once the initial shock had waned, he cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders back on his neck. Was he allowed to enjoy this? Because he was. He couldn’t allow Kieran the satisfaction of knowing that, though.

“That’s— that’s my dick, bro.”

“Wid you stop callin’ me bro?” Kieran groaned. “Call me Kieran, or… or maybe even Kie.”

“O-kay,” Hector murmured, unsure of whether he was imagining that the pressure from Kieran’s palm had grown harder, or if it was his own body responding. “That’s still my dick, though, Kie.”

“I know it’s your dick.”

“Oh. Cool,” was all he could think to say, rendered speechless. “Well… you gonna untuck my shirt or not?”

Kieran’s gaze flitted down to where their bodies were touching. After a second of contemplation he smiled to himself, removed his hand, and patted Hector on the cheek with it in an almost comical fashion.

“Naw, Hec. Think it quite suits ye, actually.”

With that Kieran turned on his heels and strolled towards the tunnel, allowing himself a brief glance over his shoulder to bask in the enchanted state he’d brought upon his teammate.


	2. lampard x mount

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mason misses a penalty. Frank takes his mind off it.

The wheels of the coach slowed and eventually rolled to a stop, bringing about an inevitability that Mason didn’t want to face.

Flashes of the event had been spinning round and round in his head for the entire journey home. It would’ve been a class penalty if he’d put less of a curl on it, if he’d hit it ever-so-slightly softer. But he hadn’t, and that was the cold, hard reality he had to face. It was another competition they were out of, and to make matters worse, it only served to put more pressure on the gaffer. That was worse than the miss itself. 

He pretended to be oblivious to his teammates gathering their things and heading in the direction of the exit. A few pointless words of consolation were thrown his way like leftover scraps to a dog, sometimes accompanied by a pitiful ruffle of his hair, but he was determined to remain glued to his chair in an adolescent guilt-fuelled strop. 

The coach emptied quickly, leaving Mason all alone in the dark at the back. Part of him hoped that he’d be forgotten and left stranded until the morning when someone would realise and come running, gushing about how bad they felt for deserting the poor boy after what must’ve been an already troublesome night. 

On the other hand, part of him wished for something else. And that something else seemed to be on the horizon - quite literally - heading up the aisle towards him with his brows furrowed and mouth set in a thin line. No matter how many other things the manager had on his mind, he’d struggle to forget about Mason. 

“Come on, up you get.”

Mason stared out the window, pretending to be fascinated by the last of the coaching staff as they filed off and made their way to their cars in the dark. It was just the two of them on the coach now; the driver was stood off to the side, taking a lengthy drag of his vape.

“Mason, pick your head up, yeah? I told you not to be blaming yourself.”

The combination of the stubbornness and shame swirling through his body was triumphing. Frank would be getting nothing out of him.

“Mase.”

But that had almost tripped him up. No matter how simple, when spoken by Frank that little nickname always felt so special, had always ignited a fire in his stomach.

“You just gonna ignore me Mason, is that it?” Frank scoffed, throwing his hands up at his sides. “Have a nice kip on the coach then when you get yourself locked in for the night. Don’t be calling me, complaining that you wanna go home.”

Mason watched from the very corner of his eye as Frank turned to leave. The pounding in his ears was meshing with his manager’s fleeting footsteps down the aisle of the coach, and he was caught weak and defenceless, all too aware he was making the wrong decision.

“I’m sorry.”

Frank stopped in his tracks. He hadn’t gone very far. 

“What was that, Mase?”

The pair’s eyes met for the first time. Mason hoped he didn’t look as childishly pathetic as he felt, especially compared to Frank, wise beyond his years. 

“I said I’m sorry, gaffer. I’ve embarrassed you tonight.” 

Frank’s frown softened. He put his hands in his pockets and gazed at the floor, taking his time to wander back up the aisle. 

“I don’t want an apology,” he murmured, coming to rest at the edge of Mason’s seat. “Embarrassed by you? I’m embarrassed we had to go to penalties in the first place. A manager should only have himself to blame.”

Mason wasn’t sure whether he agreed with that, but he wasn’t against hearing it. 

A sigh fell from Frank’s lips, and he knelt down, hands clasped as his elbows settled on his thighs. Mason couldn’t distract himself from the rings on his manager’s fingers, or the obscene watch resting on his wrist. He’d always liked looking at Frank’s hands, at how articulate the motions were, and he especially liked fantasising about them, wondering how rough they might be if they were ever against his skin.

“Listen, Mase. You make me proud, every time. You know how much I like you, how much I trust in you.”

Mason knew these were just the words of a manager trying to console his young player, but he couldn’t help hearing it in a completely different context. He’d pulled his sleeves over the back of his palms to mask the way he was clenching his fists and refused to look anywhere other than at the back of the seat in front of him. 

“Come on Mason. You’re worrying me, son. Shall we get you home?”

“Do you talk to all your players like this?”

Shit. Just because he’d been thinking that didn’t mean he should’ve said it. If he’d wanted to show himself up tonight as some sort of reckless child, it was working.

Frank seemed unfazed. “Like what?”

“Never mind.”

A moment passed and Frank sighed to himself again before slipping into the empty seat beside Mason. He’d realised it was going to take more than some simple words of encouragement to get to the root of Mason’s resentment, but the man’s sheer presence had tightened the boy up, had put him on edge completely. 

“Talk to me, Mason. Don’t let things go unsaid between us. Our relationship is too good for that.”

Mason chuckled bitterly. If only Frank knew all of the things that Mason had dreamed about in his last few years under his management. It had got to the point where Mason thought he’d better start keeping his distance, or else there’d be no way of restraining him, or stopping any silly little admissions of admiration from passing his lips when he got the chance. 

But now it was just the two of them. Mason in a helpless mood, with his manager desperately attentive, determined to soothe him. There were a number of ways this might go. 

“That was my one regret Mase - not saying things I should’ve said, keeping it all bottled up until it got too much.”

“You would hate me if I ever said or did what I wanted to do.”

“No, I don’t think I would,” he replied, his expression as equally puzzled as it was curiously thrilled. “Go on, Mase. You can trust me.”

Could he?

Mason leant in and pressed his lips to Frank’s chastely. He didn’t care if it was irrational, or infantile, or downright stupid. Momentary bliss flooded every limb, and that made it all worth it. 

But for a few painful, anxious moments there was no response from the older man. Mason knew he should pull away, but he imagined any abruptness might make it all worse. If anything, he wanted Frank to know he meant it.

And as if Frank had read his mind, the man responded, cupping Mason’s cheek gently as his mouth moved to take his player’s lower lip between his own. 

No sooner as he had, he dropped his hand and drew back, unable to meet Mason’s wide and longing eyes.

“I’m sorry, Frank,” Mason mumbled. “Already fucked up enough tonight missing that penalty. I didn’t think that’d make too much of a difference.”

His manager could’ve done anything at that point; he could’ve blown his lid, could’ve told him to fuck off, could’ve called him any derogatory name under the sun. Instead he made a point of relaxing in his seat, blinking slowly as he acknowledged what he’d done. 

“It doesn’t make any difference,” he stated, voice gravelly and hushed. “Trust me Mase, this is… this is fine.”

He pulled Mason in for a hug, one hand wrapped tightly around the nape of his neck, the other wound around his back. They were both breathing heavily, both had hearts thumping away in their chests as if they’d played a full ninety minutes, both unsure of what else to say. 

Mason didn’t really know what to think, but at least the penalty miss was now the last thing on his mind.


	3. arteta x guardiola

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mikel is offered the job of a lifetime. Pep cannot bear to part with him, but knows he must go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honour of the apprentice no doubt beating the master later on today x

Someone had entered the room. Pep wasn’t sure whether or not to let on that he knew he had company. If it was who he thought it was, the conversation that was coming would be one he didn’t want to have. 

“Pep.”

He had no choice but to glance up from his notebook. Mikel was taking a seat opposite him on the other side of the desk, anxiously passing his phone from palm to palm as if it was still warm from the lengthy phonecall he’d no doubt just endured. 

It pained him to meet Mikel’s beady stare. He was searching already, examining Pep’s face for any sign of emotion. Longing for a giveaway tic that would tell him how his boss felt about the sudden news, about the inevitable announcement that was coming. 

Pep’s instincts had been off lately, but he knew exactly what was happening here. He knew the media circus all too well. The pair of them knew each other all too well. 

“Well come on,” he found himself goading. “Tell me.” 

“They want me,” Mikel eventually declared. “Arsenal want me.”

A forced smile appeared on Pep’s face, the same smile that manifested time after time in press conferences. He’d known, but it still stung to hear, like ripping off a plaster, or swallowing a pill. 

“I knew this was coming,” he said, hoping it was unclear whether the statement erred on the side of bitter or proud. “It was only a matter of time.”

Mikel didn’t look pleased. In fact he looked torn, perhaps even disappointed by Pep’s muted reaction. 

“You’re the only person I’ve told, Pep. Not Khaldoon, not Txiki. Not even Lorena.”

Fuck. Of course he was the first person Mikel had gone to. He’d do nothing without Pep’s word.

“So what are you waiting for?” he asked, closing his notebook and pretending to busy himself by tidying his desk. “Time to celebrate.”

“I don’t have to go.”

“Nonsense. Of course you have to go.”

“I don’t have to, Pep.”

He stopped fiddling with the items around him and took a breath, the intensity from Mikel’s gaze starting to unsettle him. 

Did he really want to stay? It didn’t matter. Mikel was in Pep’s shadow, untapped, and just screaming out to be appreciated. As far as Pep was concerned it was already decided and had been from the moment that bumbling, sorry excuse for a manager had been handed the sack.

“You will go, Mikel,” he said, certain he wouldn’t repeat himself again.

“But I have a contract here.”

And if Pep wasn’t going to repeat himself, he was going to do the only other thing he knew - rant.

“Fuck, Mikel. Sure, there’s a contract. There’s always a contract. You know how contracts work. And if you don’t go, you stay here with me, I am the happiest man on earth, and we will continue to do great things. But when you don’t go, you don’t create for yourself, and you don’t share your intelligence with the world, with your fans. You deserve this. They want you.”

“Khaldoon still wants me here.”

“And I still want you here,” Pep grovelled. “But you must, must go.”

Both of them knew he was right. Maybe Mikel had just wanted to hear something different from Pep, to be begged to stay, to be told how difficult things would be without him by his side. And things would be worse from now on; Pep wouldn’t pretend as if they already weren’t. If losing Mikel wasn’t damning solely on the side of football, it’d be a blow for the manager himself too. It was all a vicious cycle.

Who would he run to straight after the tactics they’d painstakingly planned out together resulted in a goal? Who would he shoot a look at in the dressing room prior to a much-needed half-time tirade? Who would turn the lights out in his office when he refused to move, poring over his lineups, before being dragged out to his car and sent on his way? 

And who would he search for in the crowd when things got hard, when he didn’t want to be the individual in target practice with a bullseye on his forehead, facing it all alone? Worst of all, who would be doing all of those things for Mikel when he was finally christened with the role of head coach at another club?

Mikel leant forward in his seat and searched to meet Pep’s lost gaze, knowing all-too well the silent panic that had smothered him like a blanket.

“Everything I ever do I will owe to you, Pep.”

Hearing that set a fire ablaze in his chest. He knew Mikel really believed that - he was a man of his word in the truest sense. 

“You can be better than me.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No,” Mikel insisted, unable to hold back a grin of absurdity caused by the suggestion. “Impossible.” 

“Give it ten years,” Pep shrugged modestly, “and we’ll see.”

“So you will give me your blessing?”

He would, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt him. “Of course, yes.”

“You know we will see each other still.”

Pep was sure they would. On the news, in the papers, along the touchline. Just not in the dressing room, or in his office, or over a meal. It wouldn’t be the same. 

“I will see you when I beat you, for sure.”

Mikel’s dark eyes lit up. “Is that a promise?”

“It is. And you can come and share a glass of wine with me after the game, and we will discuss how good you were. But not quite good enough.”

A smile from his assistant coach was always something to behold. Mikel’s perfectly-aligned bright white teeth had always made Pep feel insecure about his own. But when he was the cause behind the smile, he could take it all day, longing for more.

“Don’t forget me.”

Fuck, his chest was feeling heavy. Mikel had no right. 

“You’re getting too nostalgic now,” Pep complained, having to avert his eyes before the sight of the man in front of him hurt too much on account of how he’d soon be nothing more than a vacant memory. “Go on, away to London, away from rainy Manchester.”

“You won’t get rid of me that quickly.”

“You’ll be gone tomorrow.”

It was at that moment that it hit them both. There was no humour to the statement. Mikel would be gone tomorrow, and that was a fact. Pep would be without him, and they would be apart.

What was that song they played at Old Trafford before kick-off? Was it from the seventies or eighties? The melancholy, haunting track by the band from Manchester. Love Will Tear Us Apart; that was it. 

He felt the same way now as he felt whenever he heard that song.


	4. carragher x neville

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie is on perfect form. Gary can't match him, but wouldn't have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what I like to call peak procrastination x

You know when you can feel yourself smiling?

Like, really, properly smiling, almost beaming, smirking so hard that no matter how much you try to hide it, as much as you force your lips to stay clamped together, the upturned corners of your mouth and the glimmer in your eyes give you away.

Well that, whatever kind of absurdity was described above, was exactly the state that Gary had found himself in on yet another Monday night in the studio.

Jamie was exceptionally animated tonight. They’d overseen two fixtures, Leicester and Fulham, West Ham and Villa, nothing particularly special, or at least they wouldn’t have been had VAR not caused shit to hit the fan for what felt like the hundredth week in a row. Still, Gary couldn’t help feeling thankful that he was in the warmth of the studio after a long weekend, and was sat across from Carra, no less.

He looked great. Plaid dress jacket over a button-up navy cardigan, matching tie and handkerchief in the breast pocket, tight trousers. Things being different this season had meant it was becoming more and more infrequent for the pair of them to be in the studio together. On matchday one of them was usually sent off to the ground for commentary while the other got a seat in the warmth of the studio. Gary didn’t mind which role he was assigned; the only drawback was the absence of Carra. 

He’d never admit that of course.

Carra started on some nonsense spiel about having to make shirts skin-tight to avoid the fabric being deemed as offside and Gary couldn’t hide his amusement. Was amused the right word for how he was feeling? Whatever emotion it was, it was being caused solely by Carra. His silly, extravagant analogies, and the high-pitch, melodic rambling that spilled from his lips, the way he was balancing a pen so daintily between his fingers as his hands made circles in the air and banged against the table. His passion.

When it came time for David to call on Gary for his opinion he almost felt as if he was bringing the side down. He was tired, subdued, even, at least in comparison to Carra. And then Carra started butting in, and when he mentioned the Van Dijk and Pickford incident Gary wanted to kick him under the table. Things escalated from there, Carra raising his voice until Gary hadn’t finished a sentence in over a minute and the frustration he felt was showing through his stoney expression. 

He wasn’t deliberately trying to get under Gary’s skin, but it was happening anyway. Maybe it was because Gary thought he’d be able to take a backseat tonight, and the combination of tiredness from travelling and watching two games back to back had meant he’d let his guard down, allowing Carra to bulldoze in with his VAR-inflicted fury.

Gary kept his mouth shut for the most part and was thankful when half an hour later the producer’s voice came down the earpiece to say they were off the air. He wasted no time in heading for his dressing room, painfully aware of Carra’s voice shrinking out of earshot at the other end of the corridor as Gary got further away.

The white of his dressing room was almost blinding, especially an hour away from midnight. One thing he did like about it was the stillness and simplicity of it all. The quiet.

But that didn’t last for long. Gary had hardly sat down and there was a knock at the door.

The door edged open and Carra’s head poked through the gap, eyes wide and lips pursed. Without the need for words he read Gary’s expression, telling him he could come in, even if the initial annoyance that ghosted over his face would have anyone else think otherwise.

At times Gary thought it was nice that the pair of them had developed such a trusting, intuitive work relationship, bringing them to the point where they could communicate without words. He supposed in a job so oriented on speech, so overloaded by excess commentary, it had meant they’d subconsciously sought out other ways to understand one another. 

With that being said, they’d only ever communicated with physical gestures in the earlier days of their career, and they’d never understood one another then. That was putting it nicely, as well. They’d hated each other. But when they’d tried to understand one another, once they were forced to by formalities of the job, Gary had come to like Carra. 

On second thought, ‘like’ sounded a bit lukewarm, and it wasn’t that way. No; Gary had very strong feelings for Jamie. But trying to describe those feelings past the point of ‘like’ was confusing, a bit of a headfuck, really, and Gary had no time for that, especially not now.

“What’s up with you?” Carra eventually asked, lowering himself onto the arm of the sofa. “Been quiet tonight.”

“Think so? Thought you wanted a row at one point.”

Carra didn’t reply, just laughed to himself softly. 

Gary was in the process of taking his tie off, standing in front of the mirror and the glare of the hospital-white lightbulbs lining the wall. He could just about make Carra out in the reflection behind him. He’d already loosened his own tie but hadn’t taken it off, the top few buttons of his shirt undone too. It somehow made for a better look than when everything was as it should be, the way everyone else saw Carra. 

“You were more than happy to talk tonight, anyway,” Gary remarked, finding himself with a desire to speak, or maybe just a desire to hear Carra talk again. “Couldn’t get a word in edgeways.”

“Oh, give over, Gary,” Carra teased, accent the thickest it had been all night. “You love it really.”

He wasn’t wrong. God forbid it had been anyone other than Carra sat across from him tonight.


	5. keane x richards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Micah won't stop playing Christmas music. Roy goes to give him a piece of his mind.

Roy’s ears started ringing the second he stepped into his dressing room. It was the day after Boxing Day, and the day after Boxing Day meant that Christmas was over. Christmas being over meant there was no reason for Christmas songs to be played, and Roy didn’t think he was any sort of madman to believe that. And yet he could hear the jangle of piano keys, the rhythmic pulse of bass, and the intolerable drone of Elton John’s harmonies as if a band was playing the song on loop in the back of his mind.

It wasn’t that Elton John in particular was intolerable. There were simply only so many times Roy could take hearing Step Into Christmas through the wall that separated his dressing room from Micah’s.

Lately he’d felt as if he couldn’t escape from Micah. The producers had really struck gold in pairing the two of them together, hadn’t they? Micah’s inability to keep a straight face for any more than two minutes had proved to be the perfect remedy to Roy’s acerbic demeanour. There’d been times Roy wanted to knock Micah’s block off, but he’d thought about doing that to pretty much everyone he’d ever worked with, save for Kelly and Alex. Carragher? Weekly. Neville? Daily. It’d been hourly when the pair of them had played together.

Sure, Micah’s tactical punditry could do with some work, but no one was going to him for five star commentary. Roy was aware that statement worked for him as well - all he needed to do was make one remark to deliberately ruffle some feathers and it’d get talked about as much as whatever had happened in the actual game itself. One of the producers had presented him with a letter of complaint from Man City the other month after he’d called Kyle Walker a car crash of a defender. They’d all got a good chuckle out of that, even Micah. 

And that was what Roy liked about the man. He’d expect anyone who laughed as much as Micah to eventually become grating, to get on his nerves, but there was something about that particular laugh and the place that it came from that felt different. The sharp intake of breath he took before the cackles, and the lowly rumble of each individual laugh as it brewed deep in his throat until it reached the tip of his tongue and the strain on his chest turned the noise into a high-pitched cry. The way he threw his head back and opened his mouth wide to release the sound, revealing the row of neat white teeth lining the top of his jaw. Roy had witnessed it so many times now it was routine, and his part to play was sitting across the table and putting on a face that insinuated he was silently seething, a double act of sorts. 

It was maybe the first time in his work life that he felt he was part of a pair. He was always the odd one out at United, an Irishman who wasn’t interested in the drinking and partying his teammates were increasingly doing, eventually taking on the mantle of captain that meant he was isolated, alone, had to lead by example and distance himself from the other lads in order to do his job best and implement a hierarchy in the dressing room. And while he certainly wasn’t the only one standing out in the studio - Christ knows Kelly and Micah must’ve felt like a token statement on more than one occasion - Roy didn’t want to be known as a one trick pony now Graeme had taken a step back, didn’t want to be the angry, out of touch old guy he knew people thought he was towards the end of his time at United. 

Somewhat unintentionally though, Micah had given him a new lease of life, had kept him young. In front of the camera, at least. Recently there hadn’t been a day where Roy hadn’t heard Christmas music through the wall from Micah’s dressing room. Micah always played music, usually quiet enough for it not to bother Roy, but the volume today was taking the piss slightly, and never mind that, it was no longer Christmas. They were on air in an hour and all Roy wanted to do was have a quick kip beforehand. He’d settle for nothing more than a sit down, if only the wretched twang of Paul McCartney’s voice would stop.

He took it upon himself to go and tell Micah personally to turn it down. No wonder it was so loud; the door of Micah’s dressing room was wide open, spilling the music out into the corridor. Roy got a good look at Micah before he entered. The man was sat at his dressing table, legs spread wide in the chair as he adjusted his navy-coloured tie and gave his own reflection in the mirror the eyes. He wasn’t singing, not currently, but Roy wouldn’t put it past him to start belting the chorus if the moment took him.

Roy shook his head to himself and knocked his knuckles against the open door. Micah was oblivious, off in his own world, all other sound drowned out by the god-awful synths on Wonderful Christmastime.

“Micah?” he called, banging impatiently on the open door for good measure. “Micah? Micah!” 

Micah’s head turned on his neck and a hand up flew to his chest. “What?” he panicked, getting to his feet. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing’s happened!”

“Then what are you screaming my name like that for?!”

“Jesus Christ Micah,” Roy cursed over the music, “would you just turn it down!”

“Alright, alright,” he groaned, having to search for his phone under the cushions on the sofa in order to turn the volume on the speaker down. The music sounded more like a faraway whisper now, but Micah made up for it with his own booming voice. “All you had to do was ask.” 

Roy gave him a look, and Micah knew exactly what it meant.

“Well are you coming in, or are you just gonna stand and glare at me from out in the corridor?” he asked, gesturing to the sofa. 

Roy thought twice about whether or not he should take Micah up on the offer but decided he had nothing better to do. Well, a nap would just about inch it, but he’d come to know better than to let himself drift off before a match and wake up groggy. He took a seat on the end of the sofa and looked at Micah expectantly, having no doubt the man would do some form of entertaining.

“Let me guess,” Micah said, raising his eyebrows, “you hate Christmas music.”

“No, no I don’t, actually. I don’t exactly like it, but I don’t mind it,” he admitted. “I actually think it’s one of the better things about an otherwise overrated time of year.”

Micah snorted a laugh through his nostrils. “What’s your favourite Christmas song then? No, wait— let me guess.”

“Don’t say Fai—”

“It’s Fairytale of New York, isn’t it?”

He hadn’t wanted to come out of the blocks and say he hated the first song Micah mentioned, but he had no qualms with saying he hated Fairytale of New York. The song was just another piece of culture responsible for encouraging the idea that all Irish people were drunks and deadbeats. Not to mention it just wasn’t very good, either. Some nostalgic warbling and simple chords and contentious use of language that caused an ethical debate year upon year was clearly a winning formula. That particular description would fit an awful lot of Oasis songs, too. 

“As per usual, Micah,” he sighed, “you’re wrong.”

He’d never really thought about it enough to choose a favourite, but there was one that took him back to a time he remembered in pure technicolour whenever he heard it. It was cringeworthy, and it was an ever so plastic pop song at best, manufactured and autotuned and probably written by a room of twenty worthless writers who’d come up with a repetitive chorus for the masses. But it evoked a time, a feeling, that any good song should. It was Stay Another Day, which many would question its validity as a Christmas song in the first place. 

For Roy, though, it reminded him clearly of his first Christmas at United. The song was released in the December, only a few months after he’d signed. He was young and green, not bothered about impressing, because he knew he had it in him every time he went on that pitch to show his quality. He didn’t need to be liked or loved by the fans or the lads in the dressing room, but he was anyway, though the feeling was always water off a duck’s back. And that song brought back all of those vivid, juvenile, and naive emotions as if it were only yesterday. 

Roy supposed the feelings he felt when he heard that song and the feelings he had when he was in the company of Micah went hand in hand. Anyone with that much joy to give and to share hadn’t lost that spark that disappeared in most adults, that disappeared in practically every professional footballer somewhere along the line. Roy had been worn down by nearly twenty years of it. And though he’d never particularly enjoyed punditry like he’d enjoyed playing, Micah breathed some life into it, turned the dullness into colour. 

“It’s not Christmas anymore, anyway,” he found himself saying. “There should be no more Christmas songs.”

A hint of a smirk played on Micah’s lips. “You’re just a Scrooge.”

“That’s not the worst thing I’ve ever been called.”

“Y’ever thought about doing a panto? Oh, you’d be brilliant at that Roy,” Micah exclaimed, slapping his hands down on his thighs with a blinding grin. “I can just see you sneaking on in the back as the bad guy, with all the little kiddies screaming ‘he’s behind you!’”

“Speak for yourself. Now you’ve mentioned it I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who’d be a better fit for the role of Buttons.”

“Cinderella’s sidekick?”

“Exactly. You’d only have to go into the audience and hand out sweeties, remember a line or two. Big pay day as well, a panto.”

“Na,” Micah said, shaking his head. “I couldn’t do a panto.”

“You couldn’t?”

“I’ve got the perfect job already. Getting paid to watch football and comment on it.” 

He paused for a moment and laughed to himself. Roy found himself smiling before instinct took over, causing him to roll his eyes and wipe the amusement off his face. But he reminded himself he wasn’t on camera, didn’t have to put up a front, and this was Micah, who quite frankly, was impossible not to smile around.

“And even better,” Micah added, “I get to annoy the shit out of you.”


	6. dias x stones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John scores for the first time in three years. Ruben refuses to take credit for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just had to write something for these two, absolutely in love with Dias and how him and Stones have transformed the entire way that we play lately, cannot get enough

Ruben notices him as soon as he walks in the door. They all do; his limbs are limp from exhaustion, hair a matted mess as it clings to his forehead, skin raw from the cold, but none of that matters. He’s practically glowing. 

Cheers spring from the team, or at least the few men that aren’t in the showers yet. Ruben himself is as good as stripped down to his shorts and ready to wash off the sweat but for some reason he’s found every excuse to hold off for just another minute, to hang back until he’s done a mental head count and all the team are in the warmth of the dressing room. 

John is the last in after being pulled to the side for media duties once again. He looks as if the tiredness has hit him now, like he needs a moment to himself to breathe, but he isn’t allowed that just yet. Walker is instantly at his side, smothering him with his hundredth hug of the night, telling him something in that impossible-to-understand, rapid-fire colloquial English of his.

Ruben watches on from his spot on the bench as the pair look at one another with that kind of unspoken glimmer in their eyes. Being so close, you sometimes don’t need words. Walker is always in excess of them, and John the opposite - that’s how it seems to Ruben, at least. He gets the sense it’s something of a shame that the pair weren’t on the pitch together when John’s goal went in, so the two Englishmen are making up for it now. 

Or maybe not. John is trying to discreetly wrestle himself out of Kyle’s grip when he calls over to Ruben.

“Here, Rube, mate.”

Ruben’s heart thuds at the way John shortens his name. It’s one of those things he’s noticed once and now can’t ignore. Like the way John and the rest of the English ones, the ones from the north of the country, add unnecessary words to the end of their sentences. The staff do it too. It’s not just “that’s nice”. It’s “that’s nice, isn’t it?” But it’s not simply ‘isn’t it’, it’s shortened, the ’s’ is completely lost and it sounds more like ‘in’t it’. And an apparent favourite - “how about that” - it isn’t complete for these people without adding the word ‘then’. “How about that, then?” they ask, and Ruben finds himself confused, wondering why a word he associates with tense is on the end of a question. What does that even mean, “How about that, then?” He knows his English isn’t poor but nor is it quite that good. He’s watched countless clips of Vincent Kompany’s interviews towards the end of his time at the club and the accent is something to marvel, a Belgian-English hybrid that even Kevin seems to be adopting. Ruben wonders what he’ll sound like when his time here is done. 

But he can’t think about it too much, because John arrives in front of him having finally detached himself from Kyle. 

“This is yours,” he says, offering something in his hand to Ruben. 

It’s a trophy, though it doesn’t look like it on first glance. It’s forest green, in the shape of a shield, and has a cheap chrome lining. The bit at the bottom reads ‘Carabao Cup Player of the Match’. John is practically thrusting it into Ruben’s lap, desperate to be rid of it. 

Ruben frowns. “But you were man of the match.”

“No, you were man of the match, mate.”

“No,” he protests, pointing to the far end of the dressing room where the club’s press officer is stood talking to one of the backroom staff. “I heard them say it was you.”

John looks slightly stricken by Ruben’s refusal to back down. He retracts his hand and brings the trophy to his chest, staring at Ruben with wide, glassy eyes. Maybe it’s because he’s tired.

“I might be City man of the match, you know, decided by the club,” he eventually says. “But you’re definitely the Carabao man of the match, mate. Bloke who interviewed us told me to pass it to you.”

“What?” is the only thing Ruben can think of to say, knowing he’s confused, but unsure of whether it’s because he is in fact man of the match, or because of the way John has chosen to explain it. 

Nevertheless, John laughs gently. “Tell me about it. How many different man of the matches are there, eh? Surely that just defeats the objective.”

There’s definitely such a thing as a language barrier, and Ruben has never felt it quite so much as he has in his first few weeks here, but he can still instinctively tell which of his teammates are the intelligent ones. There’s football intelligence, and then there’s natural intelligence. Kevin, Kun, Foden - very intelligent footballers. Ilkay, Fernandinho, Bernardo - naturally intelligent. Ruben had noticed that John was both straight away, and it would be a lie to say he wasn’t in awe of it. 

Towards the start John had often been benched, and with Ruben as good as straight into the team, Aymeric had been his partner. Once the dust settled however, and things finally felt normal, Ruben found himself gravitating to another central defender. Pep had paired them to practice in training one day, and that was it. It was easy to communicate with John, unafraid to tell people where to be and where to go. He actually speaks to Ruben like a friend and not a colleague, and the same can’t be said for Aymeric. It had been clear John’s a sublime passer and even better in the air from day one. 

There’s no ego, no competition between them. They look good together. They get results.

And here they are now, another win, another clean sheet, another performance to be proud of. Ruben has lost count of the actual numbers, how many games they’ve played. For John, though, there’s a goal too. Someone had said it was his first in three years. 

“You keep it, John.”

“It’s yours, Ruben,” he insists, eyes narrow as if he’s wondering whether this is a language barrier thing. “Someone chose you to have it.”

“But you did everything I did, and you scored.”

“Yeah,” John says with a sneer of self-deprecation, “but you played better mate, didn’t you?”

The laugh that Ruben releases is of the same kind of emotion as John’s sneer. “That’s a matter of opinion.”

John scoffs and holds the trophy straight towards him. “Listen, do you want the bloody thing or not?”

“No! That’s why I said you. You have it.”

Something flashes across John’s expression; a mix of annoyance, disappointment, confusion, exhaustion, disbelief, maybe. Ruben wonders if this is it, if this is when John snaps and their relationship stutters just before it manages to get ahead of itself. They’re incredible when they’re playing, almost untouchable, and that doesn’t come without trust. But they don’t know one another, not really, not like John knows Walker. But the way they hug out on the pitch, the tight grips, the breath on the neck, the lips against ears - it’s strange they don’t know one another better. 

“Listen, Ruben,” John says, lowering down onto the bench beside him. He still smells of expensive aftershave, but it’s not overpowering, not in the way it is on some of their teammates. “I’ve been meaning to say this for a bit, or at least I’ve been thinking it, and now everyone else is thinking it and saying it too, I should probably say something.”

The statement is so ominous that Ruben wants to engage fight or flight mode. But John is so calm, so softly spoken, that he stays right where he is.

“I’ve worked hard to get my spot back. Well, maybe I never really had it in the first place,” he begins, rolling his eyes at himself. “Worked hard to stay fit. You do know I was as good as out the door before you came, yeah?”

“I heard a few things,” he says, honest. 

“Yeah, well. And I probably should’ve been gone, with the poor form I was on. I’ll give myself credit for how I’m doing now, that’s all well and good, but honestly mate, it’s all been you.”

Ruben isn’t really sure how to respond. His mouth is a bit dry; he knows that, and he knows he must look clueless, knows he’s being watched very closely by John from the corner of his eyes. 

“Playing next to you has made the world of difference. Sometimes, before, I felt like I had to worry about what the other centreback was doing, and I wasn’t focusing on myself. I made a fuckload of mistakes. Once a game, usually.”

“No,” Ruben finds himself saying. 

“Yeah,” John nods. “Should’ve seen my first season. I was twenty-one. Pep got asked about me after every match, in a bad way.”

“Not good, like now?”

“Definitely not good. Not like now,” he says, allowing himself a smile. “But what you’ve done can’t be played down. It looks good on me because I was so shit before. Or maybe you’re just so good, you make me look good, too.”

“If I have the trophy,” Ruben murmurs, glancing at the piece of shit in John’s lap, “will you shut up?”

John laughs, and it’s one that Ruben knows he couldn’t hold in. When John pauses to take a breath he raises his arm and wraps it tightly around Ruben’s shoulders, the movement so unexpected, so simple and so endearing, that he realises his heart is racing faster than it has all evening. 

“I will,” John says, “as long as you know I mean what I’m saying. Which is thanks, more or less. And if we keep going, keep playing the way we are, us two, well… maybe this year will be something special, after all.” 

There’s so many things Ruben likes about John. Maybe what he likes most is the way he really does believe that John means what he’s saying.


End file.
